0 comments/ 69027 views/ 2 favorites Eighteen Years and 5 Months Old By: girt Don’t let fact get in the way of fiction. [This is a continuation of the Literotica story ’18 years and forty two days old’] “My name is Esme Martin and I am 18 years and five months old,” I replied. Which wasn’t the complete truth, because the real Esme Martin had died 96 days ago when she had been raped, violated and abused by a pop mega-star. Since then only the shell has remained. I had found out the address of Humfrey Hurgen’s hideaway. As everybody must know, Humfrey Hurgen is the lead singer with the ultra successful pop band, the Polkadot Enemas. When I arrived back in the country, after a five-year absence, my first self appointed task was to go to Wisconsin and break into his wilderness retreat. I know that it was wrong of me, but I didn’t mean any harm. And I certainly didn’t deserve what happened to me. He arrived, discovered my hiding place, and took my virginity. Or to be more accurate, he took all of my virginities. My cunt. My arse. My mouth. And then he left me; shut in a secret room, where I think he had plans for some of his Hells Angel friends to kill me. But I escaped, before they arrived. However, after the first flush of freedom, I found that something major had died within me. I was dirty. I was spoiled goods. I had no right to mix with normal, happy, healthy people. So I didn’t meet up with my friends as planned, but registered in a small ramshackle motel, and stayed there for three weeks until I was due to start work on my Masters at Boston University. I hoped I could buck myself up and get back into the swing of things, but I discovered that once I was in the dorm building, I still didn’t want to go out. My attendance was only required at a few lectures a week because for the majority of the time I was due to work on my own. But I didn’t even manage to attend all of them. I went to two the first week, and only one for the next two weeks. And I’ve done no work on my thesis. I just sit in my room, without even switching my PC on, and look at the walls. I don’t know if it’s fortunate or unfortunate, but I’m not sharing a room, so I have plenty of opportunity not to be disturbed. I don’t open the windows, so I don’t know what time it is. I know that on one occasion I actually roused myself enough to get dressed for a lecture, only to go outside and find that it was the middle of the night. There’s a 24-hour cafeteria on campus, where I go to eat when the hunger pangs get too bad. In four weeks I have only managed to shower six times, and twice of them was today and yesterday. One of the things that has wormed it’s way into my conscious mind is the curious fact that though I loathe and detest Humfrey Hurgen; to the extent that I would pay for the privilege of seeing him ritually disembowelled, I still like his music. I sit and listen to CDs and tapes for hours. I tried the radio, but reality kept trying to intrude, so I stuck with pre-recorded music. Anyway yesterday, I decided that another degree was not for the likes of me, and that I would be better off in the jungle, where I didn’t have to mix with people. So I showered, dressed and went to the Administration building and told them that I wanted to drop out. The person I saw was very nice, and accepted what I was saying, but he kept on and on at me, about reconsidering. More to shut him up than anything else I agreed to be allocated a mentor, and to have a talk with her before making any irreversible decisions. All I wanted to do was get out of his office, and get back to the safety of my room. I could see by the way he looked at me, that he could see the guilt I carried with me. And whilst the words he said sounded sincere and caring: the way in which he said them told me that he actually thought something completely different. He was sneering at me. His tone of voice was telling me that I was unclean, and not worthy to be in the same building as nice people. He said that he would arrange a mentor to visit me, but I knew that he was only going through the motions. I would have agreed to anything to get out of there. So I made my way back to my room, and sent an e-mail to my parents, saying I wanted to come home. They haven’t replied yet, but they are busy people, and no doubt they’ll get around to it. When they’ve got nothing better to do. I doubt that the counsellor will arrange for anybody to visit me, but a few hours ago, I thought I’d have a shower and change my clothes again. Just in case. And then a couple of moments ago, there was a knock on the door, and a smart looking woman identified herself as Christine Miller. She said she was my mentor, and she asked me how old I was, and how did I prefer to be known. I didn’t invite her in. But she walked in anyway, and sat on the bed. I stood there for a while, and she told me to shut the door, and sit down. Which I did. Since my rape, I’ve found that I’m good at following orders. It’s relaxing. I don’t have to think or remember. Which is pleasant. “Mr. Burgess asked me, if I would be your mentor,” she informed me. “He told me that you seem to be experiencing a few problems, and before he would allow you to drop out, he wanted the college to do everything they could to help you.” She paused. “So here I am.” She waited for a reaction. I gave her none. I just sat there. I was surprised that they had sent anybody, but I quickly worked out why. It was because of the foundation that my mum and dad worked for. It made sizeable charitable contributions to the University, and the board thought very highly of my parents. So the college had to be seen to have gone through all the motions. I allowed myself to show no satisfaction, but that is what I felt, because I had worked out their motives for sending the woman. She looked nice. Funny word nice. My teachers in primary school, used to say that there was no such word as nice. But for something that doesn’t exist, it is very important. I was no longer nice. I was no longer fit to mix with nice people. She continued to sit on the bed, saying nothing. Her gaze was directed at my shoulder. It may have been meant as non-threatening, but it told me that she was too disgusted to look into my eyes. “I’m on the faculty here” she suddenly spoke. Or maybe it wasn’t so sudden. I’ve been having problems with judging time. “I teach Art History.” It was a course I knew nothing about. “Perhaps, it would help, if I started to tell you a little about myself and the mentor programme.” She looked at me as if she expected me to nod in agreement. Or give her some sign that I had heard her. But I didn’t give her the satisfaction. I remained motionless. Apart from my eyes, which were flickering everywhere. I couldn’t focus on one thing. It was like I was looking for somewhere to escape to. “My name is Christine Miller. I’m 36 years old, and before coming to Boston U, three years ago, I spent all my life in New York. I went to school and university there, and used to spend hours if not days, at a time, in the Met”. I caught her looking directly at me, for a minute, and I deliberately turned my head away. “I haven’t got tenure, but I hope to in about another five years. I am very happy here. There are some good museums and art galleries, and there is a lot of historical data in and around Boston. Much of it to do with paintings and sculpture.” She paused for breath. “The mentor program is that each student is allocated a mentor which is either a senior student, undergraduate or member of the faculty which otherwise they would have no connection with. They are meant to provide a sympathetic, impartial ear to hear the student’s worries and fears, and to offer whatever help is available. The only qualification that mentors are required to have, is that they care, and they have attended the university for a couple of years, so that they know their way around” She stopped talking again. The pause lengthened, until it became uncomfortable. At least for her, it became uncomfortable. I was too busy trying to think of a way to end this interview. “As I understand it, you have spent the last five years up the Amazon, living in the jungle. That sounds fascinating. I’m sure you have many stories to tell.” She looked at me expectantly, but I was too clever for her, and kept my silence. So after a while she continued. “Apparently you have worked remotely. Using the radio and the Internet for your studies. And you have received accelerated training because you did so well. Before this semester you were running three or four years ahead of normal. But since you started here, you have not been attending lectures, and you haven’t talked with any of your professors, and you have given every impression of not coping. And now you say you don’t want to continue.” I continued to remain silent. “I have talked with your parents on the phone” as she said this I couldn’t help myself, but my head shot up, and I looked directly at her face. “And they are frankly surprised. They knew that being amongst people again would be a big adjustment, but they honestly believed that you would be able to cope. They also told me that apart from a note, you have had no contact with your two best friends, and have actively been avoiding them. Apparently they were so worried that they contacted your parents, a couple of days ago. And your parents are so worried that they are on their way here.” “You’re lying” I managed to say. “They haven’t even answered my e-mail” I almost spat out the words. As if amazed by my vehemence she paused to gather her thoughts. “That’s because they must have not seen it yet. According to what they said last night, they haven’t heard from you, apart from a couple of single line e-mails to say you’re OK, since you left San Francisco. So when your friends said that they hadn’t heard from you either, they made arrangements to come, and they’ve been on the road since the day before yesterday. They tried to phone you, but your cell phone was switched off, and you haven’t been using your computer or else you would find messages from them on it. Unfortunately it takes time to get back from Brazil, but they are expected to arrive at Boston airport later this evening. Perhaps I could take you to meet them?” What she said couldn’t be true. I knew that my friends, whom I had kept in close contact with since nursery school, would be worried, but what did I have in common with them now. They were still nice girls. They had told me in detail of their sexual antics and experiments and so I knew that they had done everything, or almost everything that Humfrey had done to me, but there was a big difference. They had done it because of love. I had no choice. And as for my parents, I could soon prove that a lie. I went to my computer and turned it on. Almost immediately a message popped up saying that I had e-mail. I opened the first one, and it was from my mum, saying that they were coming. As was the second one, and the third and the fourth. In all there were thirty e-mails from my parents, the last one giving an arrival time of 6:20 local time in Boston. There was also ten from Josie, and fifteen from Mandy asking if I were all right. As I read these, Miss Miller remained silent. Even when the tears started streaming from my eyes, she said nothing, but stood up and walked to where I was sitting and placed her hand upon my shoulder. There was nothing I could do to stop the sobs that were racking my body. They were so fierce that Miss Miller shifted her grip, and knelt down and enveloped me with her arms, and held on fiercely, as I cried. Eventually the tears subsided and she drew me upwards until we were both standing and directed me towards the bed, where we sat side by side. She held me in both of her arms and for a few moments I felt safe and secure, before the memories started to flood back. I started crying again, and she renewed her vice like grip, and held me even closer. “What’s wrong?” she asked quietly. “You can tell me, and I promise that I won’t tell anybody else, if you don’t want me too.” She waited for a reaction. “Is it the work?” she paused. “Is it the people? I expect this country is a bit crowded after the jungle.” I opened my mouth to say something, and she immediately stopped talking, and waited to hear what I had to say. “No” I managed to say between sobs. She felt strong and like somebody I could rely on, and maybe tell my secret to. But I was crying too hard to make myself understood. The words were coming out like indistinct sounds, which she couldn’t understand. So after a few attempts, she went back to trying to guess what had happened to me. “So it’s nothing about school?” I was trying to tell her I’d been raped, but I couldn’t get the words out. I was stuttering and stammering; the most she must have been able to understand was “I”. However, when she asked this question, I managed to shake my head. She was cuddling me so close, that she probably didn’t see the movement as much as felt it. “Is it anything about living away from the jungle?” I managed to shake my head more emphatically at this. “Did something happen to you?” I nodded, and started to stop crying. I was beginning to open up, and this kind of communication, just with guesses and nodding seemed to provide me with the hope that I might be able to unburden myself. Her arms about me, made me feel safe, and not so worthless. The fact that she was trying to find out must mean that she cared. I started to hope that my parents and friends would not abandon me, if or when, they found out the truth. She waited until I was almost silent, until they was only the occasional sniffle, or sob. “Were you robbed?” I was able to lift my head away from her, before I shook it. “Were you assaulted?” I gulped and nodded my head a fraction. She paused and looked at me, as if reluctant to ask the next question. I could see something in her eyes. At first I thought it was revulsion, but then I spotted the beginning of a tear, and realised that it was compassion. She asked the next question in the gentlest voice I had ever heard. “Were you raped?” I couldn’t help myself from breaking down again. I almost shouted the word “yes” as I fell back into her embrace, and started weeping harder than I had ever done in my life before. She started to mutter words of condolence and reassurance, which I could hardly hear over the caterwauling and ugly noise that I was making. It wasn’t gentile crying. It was close to hysteria. Tears were running down my face, and I was yelling. But not words. I was screaming like a mother in labour, or a weightlifter lifting a heavy weight. I was expelling the emotion that was trapped inside me, through the sheer volume and power of my cries. I can remember the feeling of release that I felt when I admitted that I had been raped to another person. But that is about the only thing I can remember about the next couple of hours. I do remember that I didn’t give her anymore details, though she asked gently, a few times. But more importantly I slept properly for the first time since it happened. All the time I was sleeping, I could feel her arms around me, and later when we shifted position so that I was almost lying on her lap, I could feel her constantly stroking my hair. I awoke because Christine was gently shaking me, saying in almost a whisper that we had to go and pick up my parents. I felt so much better and stronger, knowing that at least part of my secret was out, and so I sat up. Immediately I started to feel mortified with embarrassment, because where I had been sleeping with my head on Christine, I had obviously been sucking her nipple. There was a huge wet patch on the front of her blouse, and I could see her erect nipple outlined against the thin material. For the first time since it happened, I could feel a faint sexual stirring. But I was much more concerned about what she must think of me. But she made no mention of it. She asked me if I felt a bit better, to which I nodded. Every time I looked at her tit trying to poke through her shirt I got redder in the face. I think that sucking her nipple, must have been a form of my seeking the comfort of being a child again. And I could only believe that she had also worked that out and so forgave me. Maybe, if she could forgive me that, then I could be forgiven for being fucked and buggered. I then realised that it must have been an incredibly uncomfortable position for her. She must have been half-lying on the bed, and half leaning against the wall, to allow me access to her nipple. And she had put up with it for over two hours. And she still wasn’t complaining. My head still felt lost in unreality, but I could feel life tapping at the edges of my consciousness, and I felt better than I had since it happened. I don’t know how long we sat there, neither of us, talking, but her blouse managed to lose some of it’s wetness, however surprisingly her nipple didn’t subside. I was confused by the fact that I noticed. Eventually we both stood up, and she asked me where my car was parked. When I had arrived for registration, my parents or the foundation had arranged for a leased car, and they had given me the keys at the office. I could see them on my desk, with most of the papers I had been given at the same time. But I honestly couldn’t remember where the car was parked. Or what kind of car it was. I had taken a taxi from the airport, and walked to my dorm. I couldn’t remember ever having driven a car since I arrived in Boston. Granted I couldn’t remember much about anything since I had arrived in Boston. “I don’t know” I told her. So she said that we would have to take her car. “But it’s full of junk, so we’ll have to empty it a bit. Can I leave my stuff here?” She was asking this of me, as if it were a great favour. But she was the one that had broken through my barriers. She had earned my eternal gratitude. She could have anything that was in my power to give her. But all I did was nod my agreement, because I felt too emotional to say anything. We went out into the hall, and for the first time, I noticed that there were other students in the dormitory, and that the corridor was alive with activity. I didn’t have any real memories of walking the hall before, but I must have done, however I was surprised that there was activity when I could have sworn there had been none previously. A couple of students nodded at Miss Morris, and she beckoned them over. “Have you got any boxes I could borrow” she asked. One of them disappeared to get some, after telling us to wait a moment, whilst the other, started to talk to my mentor. “Is she alright,” she asked gesturing towards me. “Only she’s been wandering around like a zombie” I felt crushed, and could feel myself starting to withdraw again. But Christine answered by saying that I had been unwell, and not myself and that hopefully I would be better from now on. I thought for one moment that she would tell the strange girl that I had been raped, and that the two of them would have a good laugh about it. But then I saw that my dorm mate wore a look of concern. She told Miss Miller that a couple of the girls on the floor had reported my behaviour to their own mentors. Christine said that unfortunately the system wasn’t perfect and that this was demonstrated by the fact that their concerns hadn’t been passed on to her. I didn’t say anything, but I did give the girl a shy grin, which was returned by a huge and wide smile that creased her face in every direction possible. I didn’t know that a young girl could have so many lines and creases on her face. I had seen pictures of apes that had a multitude of frown lines, and the thought of comparing this girl to a monkey made me smile a little. But I did so inside, so that nobody could see. I was not yet ready to laugh at somebody else, however innocent my humour may be. Eighteen Years and 5 Months Old The other girl turned up with an armful of empty boxes, stacked inside and on top of one another. All told there must have been a dozen of them. I made a move to take them from her, but she shook her head, and said that she’d help. As we made out way to Christine’s car, the girl with the boxes introduced herself. And to my surprise, I told her my name in return. We quickly packed all the books, and papers that littered the car into the boxes, including all the empty paper cups, and fast food wrappers. It looked like her car hadn’t been cleaned or tidied in years. I later found out that she used her back seat as a kind of office, and knew where every piece of paper or book was at any given time. A marvellous feat considering that she drove like a maniac, and that anything on the back seat must have been thrown all over the place. So, though I didn’t know it at the time, it was a real sacrifice for her to offer her car to take me to the airport. In the car, Christine asked me to tell her what had happened to me. Even though I trusted her, I couldn’t tell her the truth so I made up a simple story, without providing any real detail. I told her that I had picked up a hire car at Minneapolis airport, with the intention of seeing Humfrey Hurgen’s hideaway. I almost choked when I had to say his name, and when she started saying that she thought he was sexy and good looking, I couldn’t stop myself from crying. She actually stopped the car in the middle of the road, and ignored all the honks and yells from other motorists to give me a hug. I don’t think she realised that it was Humfrey’s name that had the effect on me. I think she thought that it was caused by my having to relive the rape. I said that I was driving and I pulled into a parking area. It was a loop road separated from the highway by a tree-covered verge. When I stopped the only other vehicle was a van. I got out to stretch my legs; the side door of the van opened and a man jumped out and dragged me inside. He violently raped me. I showed her the scar on my head. I would always have a permanent reminder of the hinges in Humfrey’s secret room. He had driven my head into it, whilst fucking my arse from behind. I said that almost the first thing he did was throw something over my head, so I couldn’t describe him. And that after he had finished, he had kicked me out and driven away. The only description I could give of the van was that it was dark. I then said that I had stayed in my car, with the door locked for almost a day, before finding a motel. And that I hadn’t reported it to the police, and that I didn’t intend to. When we pulled up at the airport, I was gently sobbing. I was allowing myself to cry as a means of her not asking me any many questions. I didn’t really feel like crying anymore. I was eager to see my parents. But at the same time, I didn’t want to see them. I was scared that they would be ashamed of me. I didn’t feel guilty about making up a story and telling it to Christine. In many ways it was a healing process. I felt a lot better about a stranger raping me, as opposed to my hero raping me. I was going to try hard to make myself believe my tale, because I knew that if I kept to my story it would be easier for me. I don’t know why a fabrication could be easier to live with than the truth, but it I knew that it would be. I wouldn’t deny to myself what had happened, and who had done it, but I could keep it a secret from everybody else. The truth if it came out would not do me any good. People would want Humfrey to be punished, but I was guilty as well as him. And there was also the document that I had signed. An anonymous rapist suited me just fine. She waited until I had more control over myself and then gently asked me if I would prefer it if she told my parents that I had been raped. Another overwhelming burst of gratitude swept over me, and I gratefully accepted her offer. As we were walking to the terminal, she asked me, which of my parents she should tell first. Which one did I believe was the stronger? For the first time in months, I had to use my brain, but eventually I replied that my mother would be able to cope better. We didn’t talk much while we waited, but Christine made sure that she was never far from my side. And I drew strength and courage from her closeness. I was worried about my parent’s reactions, but I needn’t have been. They were great. I suppose it was then that I fully realised, possibly for the first time, that parents really could love their children unconditionally When they came through they made a fuss of me, and whilst Dad was crushing me in his arms I saw Christine take my mother to one side. Before Christine told her, she instructed mom not to look at me, until after she had finished speaking. She thought that if I had seen my mother the instant after she heard what had happened to me, then her unguarded reaction would show on her face, and I could mis-interpreted it. When my mother walked slowly towards me after Christine had told her, the only expression I could read on her face was anger. And I could tell that her anger was not directed towards me. She gave me a big hug and told me she loved me, and dragged my father to one side. She knew that he would not be able to control his reaction, so she walked him a fair way away from Christine and I before telling him what Christine had told her. When they returned a few minutes later, there were the streaks of tears on his face. I had never seen him cry before. But as he held me, he started to cry again, and then I burst into tears, and then my mother lost it and joined in. I’m not sure but I think that Christine cried a bit too. We drove back towards campus and Christine dropped us off at a hotel. I gave her the biggest and hardest hug that I was capable of. I wanted to kiss her, but something stopped me. I think I may have hurt her feelings. My parents and I talked for a long while when we got to their hotel room, and then we went out for dinner. Much as they wanted the night to continue, I could see that they were very tired from their journey and so it was only a little after ten when I took my leave of them. They didn’t want me to go. They especially didn’t want me to get a taxi, but I insisted, and they reluctantly gave in. When I got back to my room, I found that the girls had left Christine’s boxes in the foyer, and the idea came to me that I wanted to return them to her, as soon as possible. So I collected my car keys from my room and walked over to the Admin Building car park. The keys had a tag with a license number on them, so I was easily able to find my car, and it started first time. I picked up the boxes and consulted the guidebook I had been given when I enrolled. I found a telephone number for Christine but no address, so I nearly gave up, but the girl I had met earlier entered the hall, because she had to use the bathroom, and she was able to give me Christine’s address. Apparently she had a get together for all her pupils at the beginning of each semester, and Justine was in one of her classes. It was almost midnight by the time that I got to Christine’s address. It was a large old brick built house, with magnificent windows and huge bays. By the look of the nameplates by the door, it was divided into 3 apartments. Christine’s name was by the side of the top bell push. Hesitantly I pressed it. Taking the boxes back to her ion the middle of the night didn’t seem like such a good idea now. I may not have been doing much for the last week, but Christine presumably needed her sleep. I heard the bell ring from quite close by, which put paid to my theory that she lived on the top floor, because she had the uppermost bell. I took a step back, which enabled me to catch a glimpse of the curtain in the front bay twitching slightly. I thought I caught a flash of somebody wearing something white. I heard the sound of a door being opened, and then I saw a light come on in the downstairs hall, and I could see the silhouette of Miss Morris through the glass of the door. I heard fumbling as she unlocked the front door and took off the safety chain, and then my eyes were assaulted by a very bright light as she opened the door. For a moment all I could see was the hazy outline of something which was yellow at the top but for the most part white. When my eyes could focus again I could see Christine standing in the open doorway waiting for me to say something. I hadn’t taken much notice of her hair before, but now it was loose and bushy, framing her face down past her shoulders. She was not wearing any make-up, but she had a striking face that didn’t need any. She was wearing a long white T-shirt or short nightgown which only just covered her crotch, leaving her long tanned legs bare. “I thought you might want some of your things” I spoke quietly because of the hour “I found my car, and I’ve loaded it.” She shook her head, not in reply to my unspoken question, but to clear it. She had obviously either been asleep or dozing when I rang the bell. “It could have waited” she replied, “but I must admit that I could do with them.” I began to turn to descend to the car and start emptying it, but she called me back.” Hold it.” She ordered “come in and let me get dressed before we bring the stuff up”. She gestured for me to enter which I did. She stood back a little to allow me to enter, but I still had to squeeze by her. As our bodies touched I could feel the small hairs all over my body stand on end. She shut the door and turned to face me. I could see that her nipples were erect beneath her shirt. I could feel that mine were erect beneath my bra. I followed her into her apartment, and shut the door behind me. I watched her walk into the living area. I noticed by the way that her bum wobbled that she must not be wearing any underwear. For some reason the thought of this excited me, and I could feel myself start to become moist. She waved at the settee, and disappeared from sight. Almost immediately I could hear the sounds coffee making. She stuck her head around the wall and asked if I took cream and sugar. I nodded. When she returned with two mugs of steaming coffee I was surprised that she hadn’t taken the opportunity to change. Especially as she had brushed her hair, and put on traces of mascara, eye shadow and lipstick. She sat on a chair opposite to where I was sitting, after putting the mugs on the coffee table between us. She sat with her legs together, almost upright, even though it was a lounge chair. “How are you?” she asked. “OK” I replied dismissively, as if it were of no concern. I felt myself start to blush, because I seemed to be staring at her breasts. But she took no notice. She bent down to pick up her cup, and I saw her tits hang down and free for a second. They were much larger than mine, but not out of proportion for her size, because she was tall and slim. Apart from a pair of well developed boobs. As she lent forward the weight of her tits pushed against the material of her shirt, and for a moment a large gap opened up at her neckline. I was granted a fleeting view of her breastbone, and the passage between her tits. Involuntarily I gasped. Which made her pause in mid movement and look at me. Thus my entrancing vista was prolonged for a second or two longer. I thought I could make out the folds of flesh on her belly as it bent, and maybe even something a little darker lower. She sat back up, and swung her legs up onto the chair, so that she was sitting on them. This exposed an even greater expanse of thigh than before, which only added to my excitement and apprehension. I had no real idea what I was doing, or why. I knew that I wanted to see her again, and as soon as possible, but it seemed to be not only because I felt grateful to her. There seemed to be a sexual element in it, which was getting more prominent with her every movement. She gave me a huge smile, but said nothing. I continued to examine her closely with my eyes. She did not seem to be discomforted by my attention. Maybe she even enjoyed it. The silence hung between us, and after half a minute or so, it began to take on and oppressive quality. It became awkward. It was past the time when one or other of us should have said something, but I couldn’t find the words. I didn’t know what words I wanted to say. I was being completely controlled by my hormones and urges, and my brain was completely blank. Just along for the ride, so to speak. The silence dragged on for another minute, during which time she took another couple of sips of her coffee. I did not touch mine; all I wanted to do was look at her naked body, covered by only the flimsiest cotton nightshirt. As if she had come to a decision, she abruptly put down the mug, and started to rise. It was an inelegant movement and quite interesting for me to watch. As she stood I had a fleeting glimpse of her pussy. She strode around the table to where I sat and lent down, so that her face was only inches away from mine. She put a palm on either side of my face and squeezed very gently. Then she moved her face closer to mine until our lips touched. I was so taken by surprise that I almost jumped out of my skin. She must have thought the kiss was something I didn’t want because she started to back off. She let her hands fall to her sides, but I leant forward, catching her lips in retreat and pressed mine against hers. I had no experience of passionate kissing. The most I had done previously was close-mouthed kisses with a couple of boys before I was thirteen. And when I was violated Humfrey hadn’t gone in for kissing. He had other uses for my mouth. So I didn’t know what to do, but I pushed harder, to increase the pressure, and hoped that I was doing all right. She broke off the kiss, and took a step towards me, and then reunited our lips. This time she was controlling it, and I could feel her lips trying to part beneath mine, and I could feel the timid exploration of her tongue against my closed lips. This was all new to me, and I was very scared, but at the same time very excited, and with great trepidation I opened my mouth slightly. I was fearful that her tongue would invade my mouth violently when I allowed it access, but it didn’t. It advanced a little, and then started to wander over my lips. I opened my mouth a little bit wider, and pressed a bit more firmly, and her tongue as if encouraged by my actions entered deeper into my mouth. Her tongue began to battle with mine, which of it’s own accord started to try to invade her mouth. We were both pressing much harder against each other, and sucking the air from the other’s mouth. I had never been kissed like this before. It wasn’t gentle or polite; it was passionate and actively encouraged the lust I felt to grow. After too soon a time, she broke away. “I’ve wanted to do that since I first saw you” she whispered. The only way I could think of to reply, in fact the only thing that I wanted to do, was to repeat the experience so I leant forward and kissed her again. Our second kiss, or maybe it was our third, but it was definitely our second proper kiss was even more passionate than the first. She was half lying on my chest, and had put her arms behind me. I could feel one hand rubbing against my spine, whilst the other seemed to be grabbing bunches of my hair. Without being conscious of it, I had reached out with my arms, and had encircled her waist. I had grabbed one of her hipbones, and was convulsively squeezing it. She broke us apart again, and stood up. Without saying a word, she reached out a hand, which I took, and when I stood she led me to another room. It turned out to be her bedroom. The cover was slightly rumpled as if she had been lying on it when I called. She twisted around and took me into her arms. She was a good six inches taller than I, and together we lay down on the bed. We didn’t fall down; we slowly lowered ourselves until we were lying side by side. Our heads on the pillows. Our eyes only inches apart. She leaned towards me and started to offer a myriad number of pecks to the area around my lips. Encircling my mouth with little kisses. I tried to respond, but most of the time, I missed any part of her face, and ended up kissing the air. I felt so free. I felt free of Humfrey, and what his prick had done to me. I felt free of the cares of the last months. I felt renewed and vibrant, and very, very horny. I had masturbated regularly since I was fifteen, but had not touched myself since the incident, and it felt like my pussy was overflowing with pent up juices. The mental journey, from not being interested in anything, to this level of frustration, in the space of one day was hard for me to come to terms with. And so I just accepted it. I recognised that I had an urgent need for sex. The fact that I required to have sex so that I could feel clean again, and that I wanted to regard sex as being a natural and clean activity, may have had something to do with my need. But it was also about needing the release. I had never had sex voluntarily with another person in my life. And here I was kissing and lusting after a woman. I couldn’t believe it of myself. Since puberty all my dreams and fantasies had involved men. I had looked at my girlfriends naked over a web cam connection, and it hadn’t stirred me in the least. But now I wanted to continue kissing Christine for the rest of my life. No that was untrue. I wanted to do more than kiss her. She pulled apart from me and pulled her nightshirt off. She was completely naked underneath. I had seen naked girls before. All I had to do was look in a mirror. But she was entirely different. Or maybe it was the situation we were in. I was hungry for her. But I didn’t know what to do. She lay on her back, with her arms by her side, and her legs slightly open. Waiting. I took my time inspecting her. I looked at her face first. Her hair was splashed over the pillow, like a golden halo. Her eyes were wide with excitement and want. Her mouth was open a bit, with the tip of her pink tongue just showing. Her neck was smooth and unwrinkled but red with passion. Her tits were large and lying flatish on her chest. The nipples were erect. Her aureoles were large and brownish. Her belly was flat, and I could see the shape of her ribcage. Her navel was concave, and looked inviting. Her groin was hairless apart from a small strip of golden pube. The lips of her slit were engorged and fat, and were a dark shade of pink. I could see where one lip stuck to the other, but it held the promise of a wet hole. I couldn’t continue my inspection any longer, I had a burning need within me that needed to be fulfilled. I didn’t know what to do, but I let instinct and desire guide me. I leaned over and took one of her nipples into my mouth, and started to suck. Instantly I felt more comfort than I could ever have imagined. I had read about the bliss of lying in a sensory deprivation tank, and that was the only thing that may possibly have compared with how I felt. I ran my tongue around the base of her nipple, and over its plateau. It became even harder and bigger, but this was a bit hard to judge as Christine pressed herself upwards. I opened my mouth wider and took more of her tit into my mouth until it was filled, and I sucked deeply. It felt like I was pulling her nipple deep into my mouth. I repeated these actions on the other nipple. Her neck area was bright red, and she was breathing deeply and irregularly. I inched myself a bit lower on the bed, and trailed my tongue down from her breast to her belly button. I traced its outline, and then penetrated its depth with my tongue. She gasped. Eighteen Years and 5 Months Old My tongue continued its path downwards. It stopped at the beginning of her pubes, and began to toy with its uppermost hairs. My upper lip was rubbing against whiskers from where she had shaved and shaped her cunt hair. My tongue explored the dense matt of hair, drilling down through the curls to her soft skin. I continued my downward path, until my tongue was at the highest point of her slit. I made it take little vertical movements from the bottom of her column of pubic hair to just below where her slit started. As I moved downwards my tongue gently and almost clinically made a little parting between her cunt lips. I must have repeated this a hundred times, whilst I carefully edged myself lower in the bed. I could then move my attention lower, which I did by making my tongue take longer strokes. On the upward stroke, I could feel her lips parting and her clitoris felt like a hard bud when my tongue travelled over it. On the downward stroke, my tongue struck the side of the small red blood filled clit with a bump, and then passed over it to descend into the depths of her flaps, and eventually into the wetness of her cunt hole. I was concentrating very hard, and licking her with all my heart, soul and imagination, but I was not fully entering her quim. I was going up and down, assaulting her clitoris and her cunt at either extreme of my stroke, but concentrating on neither. I changed tactics and concentrated on her clitoris. I didn’t move my head at all, and merely lapped at it with my tongue. Teasing her bud, with quick vibrating moves. At one point, I retracted my tongue, and then lowered my mouth until my lips surrounded her little clit. I sucked and felt it slip into my mouth. I sucked rhythmically for a couple of minutes, and I swear I felt it grow. Then it returned to stimulating her clit with my tongue. Manipulating it. Teasing it. Beating it with the softness of my tongue. I could feel Christine writhing beneath me. I could feel her hands grabbing at the back of my head. I could feel her fingers grasping and pulling at my hair. When I felt that the time was right, I moved my head lower and started to play with her cunt hole, but as I did so I had moved my hand up, so that my fingers could keep up the clitoral stimulation. I rubbed it with small circular motions. By this time it felt like a hard bean beneath my finger pad, that I could roll and cajole into sexual enjoyment. I heard near inarticulate cries as she tried to make me stop. I heard her say that it wasn’t fair, that I should be getting some too, but I was too wrapped up in what I was doing to heed her words, and I continued with my ministrations on her eager cunt. I inserted my tongue into her cunt and tasted her juices. I sucked them into my mouth, and swallowed them eagerly. All the time, my fingers kept working, as my tongue reamed her. I projected it deep within her as far as I could, before withdrawing for another penetration. I moved my tongue in and out and around her welcoming cunt. I stretched her opening with my tongue. I lapped at her, like a dehydrated hound in a drought laps at its drinking bowl. She was moving wildly beneath me, and I could feel her hands frantically grabbing pieces of my clothing and trying to pull me off. But not very hard. I believed that she wanted me to stop, out of a sense of fair play. Because she wanted to do to me, what I was doing to her. And this was borne out because she didn’t try very hard to make me desist. My other hand crept up, and I inveigled a finger into my own mouth, whilst not stopping my tongue from doing its duty. I wetted my finger with a mixture of my own saliva and her cunt juice, before slipping it into her unresisting quim hole. I had withdrawn my tongue simultaneously so that her cunt penetration was not interrupted. My left hand was jiggling with her clitoris. My right hand had a finger plunged into her minge. And I lowered my head even further and traced the short path from her cunt to her arse. It was a very awkward position to be in, and not at all comfortable, but I didn’t care. I traced the outline of her anus with my tongue. My head was twisted at a painful angle, but I ignored it. However it meant that I was prodding myself with my own hand, and that my chin was getting very wet. I stuck my tongue into her arsehole and started moving it in and out. Thus far everything I had done, I had done instinctively. I didn’t know if this was how lesbians made love, but it was what I felt was right to be doing, and she seemed to be enjoying it. Unfortunately my neck was twisted at such an unnatural angle that I couldn’t keep up this assault for very long and reluctantly after a final push with my tongue deep into her arse, I twisted back to start face fucking her again. My tongue penetrated her cunt as my finger left it, and I was pushing it as deep as I could inside her. She was bucking beneath me. She had stopped trying to stop me, and it sounded as if she was well on the way to an orgasm. I moved again, and my mouth took over the manipulation of her clitoris By now, even in my distracted state I could hear her yells and grunts and I had trouble keeping in position because she was moving about so much. I felt her tense up as the first throes of her orgasm threatened, and then she blew. It was all I could do to keep my tongue in the approximate area o f her cunt as she started thrusting upwards, outwards and sideways at the same time. Her arse was leaving the bed as she arched herself upwards as each wave of ecstasy overwhelmed her. She was shouting “yes” and in my happiness at giving her so much pleasure I wondered if her neighbours would complain, but I continued. I could feel her juices erupt from her and cover my face where it came into contact with her hole. I felt my chin actually open her slit and enter her a little bit, as the muscles in her vagina relaxed as she orgasmed. Her head was thrown back, and she was gasping, panting and shouting. Her back was arched and rigid, and I was still manipulating her clitoris with my fast moving tongue. But eventually, I felt her begin to relax, and the quality of her screams decreased, and I knew that she was on the way down. I continued until she was lying there almost passively, just giving the occasional whimper, before I stopped. I pulled my head away and looked at her cunt. It was raw and open, and I could see a trail of white juice dripping from it and flowing into her arsehole. I couldn’t help myself, but I had to lower my head and give her wet, open and sated cunt a kiss, before I sat up. During the long night that followed she more than made up for it, by making me cum three times, whilst she only came another once. She asked me why I hadn’t stopped and allowed her to have a go at me at the same time, since it was our first time together, and she didn’t want to be a selfish lover. I tried to give her a reply that made sense, but what it basically came down to was that I needed to make sex clean again. And that it felt right for me to bring her off, without a thought for my own pleasure. I don’t know if it was her lesbian cynicism speaking but I thought that she encapsulated how I felt with the words “Making love is about giving. Men are about taking.”